by J. T. Edson
Taking up his career where he had left it off, although the full details were not made public for obvious reasons, enough had become known of Ogilby’s activities as a secret agent for him—aided by his still considerable talents, although some said these had declined somewhat during the past two or three years—to allow a return to his previous prominence. He had not yet taken any of the offers he received to tour outside the country, which would have required the use of the special passport. Instead, he had seemed content to travel extensively around the United States.
Despite having missed the second Monday performance because of a stomach disorder, ‘Haysoff Spades’ had just concluded a successful two weeks appearance in Fort Worth. Continuing his tour on the Interstate Vaudeville circuit, which operated the Alhambra as well as the theatre which bore its name, he had moved to nearby Dallas and, after his opening night show, had come to the mansion with a small party of wealthy local businessmen to indulge in his hobby of gambling for high stakes.
‘Money!’ the entertainer whooped, having sent the two dice with a snap of his wrist so they flew through the air and, striking the padded side wall of the ‘single dealer’ craps table, rebounded to alight with their upper surfaces each showing a score of four.
‘And Haysoff Spades has made it, the hard way!’ intoned the stickmen, using the crooked cane held to retrieve the dice. While doing so, he glanced to make sure the ‘dealer’—for whom, in his capacity as croupier of the game, he was assistant—was in no need of his help with either collecting the stakes from losing bets or paying the winners. Satisfied this was not necessary, he drew and pushed the cubes until they were in front of the entertainer, continuing, ‘Let’s hope you’re as hot tonight, Sir, as you were at the theatre. We always like to see our players win!’
‘Just so long’s they don’t do it too often, huh?’ Ogilby suggested, picking up the dice and still giving the exaggerated impersonation of a typical poorly educated Negro’s accent, which he employed as much off the stage as during a performance. ‘Like you say, I’m hot tonight and I’m going to take you like General Houston took Santa An—!’
What might have been a less than tactful simile, in view of there being a number of wealthy and influential Mexicans present to whom such a reference could be offensive, was brought to an end before it could be completed!
There was a shattering crash and, for all its sturdy construction, the locked and barred side door giving access to the gardens of the mansion was literally burst off its hinges. Clearly this was as a result of having been charged by the left shoulder of the massive young man who entered followed by several more. Although he was in civilian clothes, there was a silver ‘star in a circle’ badge fastened to the left breast pocket of his longish and loosely fitting open black jacket. All those behind him wore the uniforms of officers in the Dallas Police Department.
Despite there being obvious indications that all the newcomers were peace officers, some of the ‘house’s’ employees started to reach for the revolvers beneath their tuxedos. Giving them no time to bring out the weapons, Sergeant Ranse Smith of the Texas Rangers came to a halt and responded to the threat with a most commendable rapidity considering the way in which he had gained admittance to the room.
By swiveling his hips as he stopped, with feet spread apart to almost the full extent of his enormously wide shoulders, the blond giant showed he was armed in an unconventional fashion. It was, nevertheless, one for which his massive frame—aided by the loosely fitting jacket apparently at odds with his normally close to dandified selection of attire—was ideally suited. Carried in an open fronted spring retention holster on a three inches wide russet colored belt around his waist, 20 he had a Burgess folding riot gun designed to offer its user comparative ease of concealment.
Grasping the wrist of the butt with his right hand, Ranse shoved the Burgess free from the retaining springs of the holster. Swinging it swiftly upwards, he caused the folded barrel to pivot around on a hinge until it snapped home and automatically locked with the receiver. Such was the excellence of the design that it was possible to have the tubular magazine beneath the barrel filled to its six shot capacity and ready for use even when the weapon was folded for carrying.
Deftly catching the fore grip in his left hand as it rose into an operating position, the blond giant continued to tilt the barrel upwards. While doing this, his right hand was manipulating the longitudinally sliding pistol grip and trigger guard assembly. This served the same purpose as the ‘trombone’ type of fore grip fitted to similar weapons manufactured by other companies. 21 Having done so in a split second, he squeezed the trigger and discharged the shell fed into the chamber from the magazine.
Swiftly as all the movements had been carried out, there was a deep bang and nine buckshot balls shattered the crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. Before the pieces could reach the open area of the floor over which they had been suspended as an attractive whole, a flick of Ranse’s big right hand sent the mechanism through its reloading cycle. The empty case sailed out through the briefly opened ejection slot to be replaced by the next available round.
Faced by such an exhibition of speed and dexterity, made all the more impressive by the size and obvious potential of the weapon brought so swiftly into use, the blond giant’s actions caused every attempt at drawing revolvers to cease before they could clear leather. Even without the demonstration they had just witnessed, the employees of the house knew no man became a Texas Ranger—much less a sergeant at what was obviously an unusually early age—unless he possessed considerable proficiency in using firearms. Therefore, sharing a mutual desire to preserve their health, none of them had any intention of provoking such an undoubtedly competent member of that organization with gestures of hostility.
‘Stand still, everybody!’ Ranse commanded in a bellow which sounded above the screams and shouts of alarm from female and male players on finding flight was impossible due to more members of the Dallas Police Department appearing in every other doorway. ‘I’m Sergeant Alvin Dustine Fog of the Texas Rangers and this is a raid!’
‘A raid?’ Massart repeated, placing a somewhat different emphasis on the second word. His tone of puzzlement was genuine.
This was the first time any such thing had taken place while the floorwalker was in his present employment. Although gambling was illegal in Texas, knowing it would take place anyway, the various law enforcement agencies adopted what they considered to be a sensible attitude towards it. So long as it was run honestly and without the operators making trouble, they tended to turn a blind eye to its existence. Knowing this, Hogan Turtle gave strict instructions with regards to the way in which his ‘houses’ were conducted, and these were enforced as to do otherwise would incur penalties far more painful than merely being fired.
Nevertheless, being equally aware that the situation could be changed if—for example—anti-gambling crusaders exerted sufficient political pressure, Turtle also insisted measures were taken to avoid the consequences on those occasions when the laws against gambling were to be enforced. There had always been corrupt peace officers, although never anywhere nearly so many as the ‘liberal’ elements of a later generation’s media would imply as part of their campaign to smear the forces of law and order. In every town large enough to make the precaution necessary, at least one member of its law enforcement agency would be bribed to give warning of any moves detrimental to the organizations’ various nefarious operations. While the informants in Dallas had always earned their pay in the past, Massart had not received even so much as a hint that action was to be taken against the ‘house’ under his control.
‘A raid,’ Ranse confirmed, then lowered his voice so that it did not reach beyond the man he was addressing. ‘And, after you get yourself bailed out tomorrow, you pass word to Hogan Turtle this will happen all over Texas until we get the Chopper for gunning down Jubal Branch and Dutchy Soehnen.’
‘You can’t get away with anything like
that!’ the floorwalker asserted, but he was not allowed to continue with his intended warning reference to the wealthy and influential people who were present.
‘I’ve got news for you, we’ve already started to do it … and more, as you’ll find out soon enough,’ the blond giant declared. Then, without waiting for Massart. to reply, he looked around and raised his voice. ‘All right, gents, take the names and addresses of everybody who’s here!’
‘Yo!’ responded the captain in command of the detachment from the Dallas Police Department, using the traditional cavalry assent to an order.
‘Damn it!’ boomed a corpulent and expensively dressed player, over the startled and alarmed comments which arose from the others on realizing what was meant by Ranse’s words. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘It’s the law, Senator Brayne,’ the big blond pointed out, resting the barrel of the Burgess on his right shoulder. ‘You and everybody else who’ve been playing are going against Articles 618 and both sub-sections of 624 of the Texas Penal Coder which cover; “Betting At Dice Games; Miscellaneous Betting and Same, If At Gaming Tables Or Bank.” All three bring a fine, but the last can have ten to thirty days jail additional.’
‘Jail?’ the politician almost yelped, the word being repeated around the room with various types of concern. Making an attempt to resume the pompous and self-important arrogance of his demeanor, he continued, ‘And what might your name be?’
‘Sergeant Alvin Dustine Fog,’ Ranse lied, as he had been instructed by his commanding officer.
‘Fog!’ Brayne repeated, losing some of his bombast. He was all too aware of the power and influence that could be wielded throughout Texas by men of that name and their kin of the Hardin and Blaze families. ‘Are you—?’
‘Sheriff Jackson Fog of Rio Hondo County’s my father,’ the big blond claimed. He could see the politician was impressed; perhaps even more than would have been the case if he had used his own name and mentioned his not unimportant family connections.
‘By whose authority are you taking this action—Sergeant Fog?’ asked the Senator.
‘We’re under orders from Captain Benson Tragg of the Texas Rangers, sir,’ Ranse replied, his manner polite yet unremittingly cold. ‘And he’s got the authority of the Governor for sending us.’
As the blond giant had intimated to Massart, even though ‘Keeping Premises For Gambling Purpose’ was a felony liable to incur a penalty of a jail sentence of two to four years, there was much more to the raid than just dealing with a contravention of Article 625, ‘Offenses Against Public Policy And Economy’ section of the Texas Penal Code.
In spite of having killed two peace officers—Sergeant Hans Soehnen having lived only long enough to tell the patrolman of the Fort Worth Police Department by his hospital bed of the meeting with Hubert Kretzmer—the Chopper had followed his usual habit of informing the local newspaper that he was responsible. Nor, as he had included certain code words which had never been made public to ensure he received the credit, was there any possibility of somebody either trying to lay the blame upon him or steal his thunder.
While they now knew who to seek, Major Tragg and his men had also realized that their task was anything but a sinecure. Neither the pickpocket nor any member of Hogan Turtle’s organization could—or would, if they knew anything,—shed any further light on the matter. All attempts to locate the Negro in the alley had failed. Not even learning that the intended victim was an accountant of some importance throughout the State had as yet produced more than a list of possible suspects who had reason to want him dead.
Faced with a succession of dead ends, even though the identity of whoever had hired the Chopper to kill the accountant might supply a lead, Company ‘Z’ had been disinclined to wait until—or if—this came to light. Realizing only unconventional methods could induce members of the underworld to disclose what they knew about him, and being sure that some of them must possess knowledge not previously imparted despite the sizeable bounty on his scalp, Major Tragg had formulated a scheme which he believed might bring about a spirit of greater willingness to co-operate. He had been helped in putting this into effect by the liking and respect in which Jubal Branch in particular was held by a great many peace officers of all kinds throughout Texas. Furthermore, the full power of the influential families of Alvin Fog and Ranse Smith were brought to bear. Learning the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan and the oil rich Counter family were taking such an interest, 22 members of law enforcement agencies of all kinds who lacked the bond of friendship considered it politic to fall in with the proposals they had received. Even those whose income was boosted by bribery felt it advisable, under the circumstances, to forego their illicit activities for the time being. The latter was the reason why no advance warning of the raid had been passed to Massart by the local peace officers on Hogan Turtle’s payroll.
While other members of Company ‘Z’ were engaged elsewhere on similar assignments, Ranse, having learned the location of the new ‘house’ from one of his wealthy kinsmen, had been instructed to work in conjunction with the Dallas Police Department on the raid. The message he had given to be passed on to Turtle was, it was intended, only one which would be delivered the following day. Other major criminals were also to feel the effects and the pressure was to be continued until somebody supplied the information needed to find the Chopper.
Chapter Five – It Is Happening All Over Texas
‘Saludos, señores!’ greeted Salvatoro Nieto, in heavily accented and apparently cheerful English, as he rode out of the darkness into the glow from the headlights of a big Mack Brothers truck. He brought his horse to a halt and signaled for the rest of his party to do the same. While addressing the four armed white men standing by the side of the vehicle, his eyes were constantly scanning the woodland which flanked the narrow trail. ‘Never have I had such a good market for my tequila. This Prohibition law of yours will make us all rich, no?’
Despite his seemingly jovial attitude and words, the big and burly Mexican kept his right hand thumb hooked in his fancily engraved buscadero gunbelt close to the silver inlaid Tiffany grips of the Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker in its tied down fast draw holster. Ten of his countrymen—each wearing cheaper, even dirtier versions of his vaquero’s charro attire and leading two heavily laden pack mules—slouched on .their saddles cradling loaded and cocked Winchester Model of 1876 carbines across their knees.
Of the men by the truck, one held a Thompson submachine gun, two had sawn-off shotguns and the last and best dressed of them, carried a Colt Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers and left in view by his coat being open. However, regardless of the apparently amiable greeting, he had not fastened the jacket. Nor did his companions offer to place their weapons inside the cab of the vehicle.
Although the mules were carrying a large consignment of tequila, there was no justification for the close to suspicious way in which the two parties were studying one another. At other times, the Mexicans might have been willing to try and rob the gringos of the money brought to pay for the liquor, just as the men by the Mack would have sought to obtain it free. However, Nieto had spoken the truth about the excellence of his market and knew he would have difficulty in bettering it. The same applied to Dimitri ‘Joe The Greek’ Horopolis, for whom the quartet worked, with regards to the source of supply offered by Nieto. Therefore, as there was no sign of the Volstead Act being repealed in the foreseeable future, neither group wished to kill a goose which consistently laid golden eggs.
Under normal circumstances, the mules would not have required leading individually. Being well trained for pack work, they could have been left loose to follow a mare with a bell fastened to its neck. 23 However, when engaged upon smuggling liquor across the Rio Grande during the hours of darkness, there were disadvantages to employing this system. Not only could greater control be maintained over the animals when led, but in the event of an attempt to hijack the consignment, or the appearance
of revenue officers on either side of the international border, they could be more easily defended in a compact group than was possible if they were allowed to move at liberty. Doing so also offered a reason to have several men along, without making it obvious that they had no faith in the trustworthiness of the gringos with whom they were doing business.
‘Howdy, Sal,’ responded Victor Demosthenes, without showing any signs of relaxing vigilance or buttoning his coat. ‘Did you have any trouble coming over the Rio Grande?’
‘I never have any trouble coming over the Rio Bravo,’ Nieto replied, using the Mexican name for the river which acted as the border between his country and Texas. Satisfied all was well, he swung from his saddle. Dropping the reins, knowing the horse would remain just as still as if he had tied it to one of the nearby trees, he held out his dirty and bejeweled left hand, continuing, ‘I trust Joe is in good health and as prosperous as ever?’
‘He sends his best wishes,’ Demosthenes claimed with as little truth as there had been sincerity in the enquiry, taking a thick wad of money from his right breast pocket. ‘And this.’
